


Snow Angels, A Christmas Triptych

by wordybirdy



Series: Trifle Bubbles - One-Shots & Multi-Chaptered [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Friendship, Love, Multi, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-01
Updated: 2011-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-26 18:12:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Featuring 3 variants of the Holmes & Watson pairing, each striving to celebrate the festive season in their own, unique way. Small, fluffy vignettes in Canon, Silly-Canon and BBC 'verses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Canon

**  
Part One -- Canon   
**

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Holmes! It is snowing!”

Holmes and I had not been back at 221B for very long, that cold December evening of 1887. The sky had been heavy and threatening all the day, and my friend had complained loudly as we made our way to and from Scotland Yard for what was very likely our last case of the year. Holmes rarely dressed appropriately for the winter weather; it seemed to have become my lot in life to follow after him with warm overcoats and gloves, and to fuss for him to put them on and not to lose them; for when his attention was entirely focused elsewhere, personal comfort was the last thing on his mind. On this occasion, he had left his scarf behind; I had been remiss enough not to notice. I had given him mine. The chill air nipped my neck and whistled around my collar, but Holmes, at least, was happier.

Now, as I stepped away from the roaring comfort of our fireplace and peered out from our bay window, I took pleasure in observing the flakes that whipped against the frosted pane, flurrying down to the street below.

“Holmes, do come and see,” I said, waving to him.

My friend sighed. He rose from his armchair and came across to join me in the bay.

“It will be ankle-deep by nine o'clock,” said he, “and quite knee-deep by the morning. Mycroft will be furious.”

I chuckled. “Brother Mycroft must find it irksome that it is not yet within his power to control the elements,” I said. “Still, he will not be walking here from Pall Mall. He has a carriage.”

“This whole scenario is ludicrous,” said my friend, backing away from the view and returning to our cosy hearth. “And potentially abominable.”

We – or rather, should I say, I – had been enthusiastically engaged this past week on our forthcoming Christmas celebrations. For tomorrow being Christmas Eve, the 24th December, I had been grandiosely inspired to plan a fine dinner, inviting Mycroft, of course, and our two closest friends from Scotland Yard to join in the festivities. Mrs. Hudson, bless her sweet soul, had not baulked very terribly at the prospect of preparing a meal for the five of us on such short notice, and I had busied myself thereafter with arranging the relocation of her grand six-place dining table from her kitchen to our sitting-room, where it would be positioned tomorrow in central pride of place. I was thankful that our room was sufficiently large to accept it without the need to rearrange the existing furniture too inconveniently. My thoughts now turned happily to our feast, our guests and the season.

“We must decorate tomorrow, Holmes,” I said, smiling around to him. “I do hope that you didn't throw away last year's baubles.”

“Only the ones that I stepped on and cracked,” he replied. “The others are quite safe in their tissue box, my dear fellow. Wherever that is. The lumber-room, I suppose.”

“Yes,” I said, “that is where they must be. I shall retrieve everything first thing tomorrow morning, before we set up the dining table.”

Holmes groaned. “I wish it could just be the two of us,” said he, his lips pursed.

“It will be just the two of us on Christmas Day,” I scolded him softly, “since you would not allow Mycroft to persuade us to attend his own celebrations.”

“Indeed not,” said Holmes. “I would have no desire to play rounds of 'The Minister's Cat' all day long. I would be a nervous wreck.” He yawned, and stretched his long legs out before him. “Draw the curtains, will you, my boy, I feel a draught coming through from somewhere. Then join me here, and let us smoke together.”

I drew the curtains closed, taking one last peep outside at the snow now settling and layering, with no remotest sign of ceasing. I picked up my pipe from my desk, and my tobacco pouch from the mantel, and sat opposite my friend. He smiled at me lazily through his own plume of smoke.

“I am very glad that we resolved the Carpenter case today,” said he. “I was not relishing the prospect of it dragging through into the New Year.”

“No, indeed,” I replied, emphatically. “You have given that poor gentleman peace of mind now; his worries are over. And to think that it was all due to the depth of the scratches on the door-frame. If you had not noticed them, then that rogue Hawshank might still be at liberty.”

“I noticed them from the start,” replied my friend with some asperity. “It was merely the nature of how they became so in the first place. Come here,” he added, then, looking at me askance.

“I just lit my pipe,” I grumbled, amused all the same. I waved it at him. “This Christmas Spice blend is quite excellent, Holmes, you should try it.”

“I do not think so,” he said, wrinkling his nose, “it smells like old fruitcake. Come here.”

I heaved myself out of my comfortable nest, and perched myself upon the padded armrest of my friend's easy chair.

“Well, now I am here,” I said. “Apparently smelling of old fruitcake, but nonetheless, at your disposal.”

Holmes chuckled quietly. He flung an arm around my waist and anchored it, rubbing my side gently with his thumb. With my left hand I roughed and smoothed his dark hair back, gently drawing down his nape to harbour soft upon his shoulder. We remained that way a while as we smoked, enjoying the warmth and each other's company, for such simple pleasures are the fondest, I have found. At length, my leg resolved to ache, and when our landlady knocked upon the door to carry in the evening meal I was relieved to rise and stretch my sore limb, then to tap the ash out from my pipe and join my friend at table.

“Your first square meal in how many days?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “Two, perhaps,” he said. “I could not spare the necessary time for digestion.”

I shook my head. “I wish you would at least try.”

“I am making up for it now,” my friend replied, “and will likely continue over the next couple of days, if Mrs. Hudson has her say in the matter. By the end of the week I shall be intolerably bloated, irrevocably nauseous, and no doubt you will feel very satisfied about it, dear Doctor.” He caught my eye and winked. “I shall help you with the dining table tomorrow,” he added, in an attempt to pacify.

“Yes, please do,” I said, through a mouthful of pie crust, “I may be strong, but certainly not quite as strong as to manhandle a mahogany table in its entirety up a full flight of stairs on my own, without a good deal of invective.”

“I shall do my utmost to assist,” said Holmes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By eleven o'clock the next morning our festive decorations were strung and garlanded, brightening the mantel, shelves and door-frames. Cheerful Christmas cards adorned every conceivable surface. In a corner, sat a small pile of brightly wrapped and ribboned gifts. The great dining table now stood proudly in the middle of it all, for Holmes and I had triumphed in our mission to have it elevated to the sitting-room without grave mishap. We stood back from it and surveyed the room together.

“Where on earth is my violin amidst all this nonsense?” asked Holmes. “Everywhere is covered in holly and bows and white cotton. I won't be able to find _anything_ now.”

“Your violin is wherever you left it,” I said, turning around as our landlady bustled into the room with a telegram envelope. “Holmes, you have a telegram. I do hope it isn't urgent. It's Christmas _Eve_.”

Holmes ripped the flap and read the contents.

“It is from Mycroft,” said he. “He informs us that he will be bringing a guest with him this evening.” He strode to the landing, leaning over the stair-rail. “ _MRS. HUDSON!_ It will be SIX of us for dinner tonight. Yes, SIX. So sorry!” He came back into the room, chuckling. “Hmm, I wonder who the sixth could possibly be?”

“Whoever it is, it is on very short notice,” I remarked.

“Well, now, that is brother Mycroft for you,” Holmes replied. “He is frequently taken to such whims, and we must all snap to attention or pay the price and accept the brunt of his withering fury. He really doesn't have the energy for it to be any more potent than _withering_ , you know.”

“The snow is not quite yet knee-deep,” I said, moving across to the window, “but there is every likelihood of it becoming so by the evening. It is almost a blizzard.”

“I suggest, then, that we enjoy these two cups of hot chocolate that Mrs. Hudson so thoughtfully brought us along with the envelope, and spend the rest of the day as comfortably as we can before the onslaught. Oh, I do beg your pardon, my dear fellow. Before the _party_.”

And we did so, feeling fortunate that neither of us was compelled to venture outside the front door that day, for the cold was as piercing as the snow was relentless. We lit our lamps and stoked the fire, and very soon 221B was as cosy and inviting as it could be. Holmes busied himself with his indexes; I played Solitaire, and read a third of the way through my new sea novel. At five o'clock, Mrs. Hudson came through to prepare the setting of the table, and we stirred ourselves to change into our evening dress and await the first arrival.

“I have an idea as to who our mystery guest might be,” said Holmes, as he straightened his tie in the dressing-table mirror. “Well, it could be one of two people, but with one far more likely than the other.”

“Tell me who,” I demanded.

My friend smiled. “You will see,” he replied. “It is someone we both know.”

The downstairs bell rang, then. We heard the murmurs of greeting as Mrs. Hudson admitted the guests entry, and two pairs of heavy boots upon the stair. Holmes stepped to the sitting-room door, and flung it open wide. He burst into hearty laughter.

“Why, Lestrade! Gregson! You are quite the pair of snow angels. Come in, the both of you.”

They stepped in, and I saw as to what my friend was referring. Both were covered from their heads to their boots in thick snow. Lestrade smiled sheepishly and thrust his arms out from his sides in a gesture of defeat.

“We walked here,” the Inspector explained. “And well, it is snowing rather heavily, as I am sure you know. I do apologise, gentlemen, we should not be scattering it all upon your rug the way we are. Gregson, we had best remove our coats on the landing.”

When they were inside our room once more, we drew them up close to the fire. We exchanged greetings and made small talk, and loud complaints regarding the harsh weather, and gradually the colour returned to their faces. It was surely helped by the glasses of wine which Holmes had poured for us all.

“We are to be six?” enquired Gregson, as he surveyed our festive dining table.

“We are indeed,” I said. “A friend of Mycroft's.”

“No doubt they will be fashionably late,” said Holmes, leaning back languidly in his chair. “Although certainly not so late as they might miss the first course. Mycroft would never allow that to happen.”

“Your holiday plans are still as you last mentioned them?” I asked the two Inspectors.

Lestrade nodded. “Yes, I imagine, right enough. I will be travelling to spend the day with my old mother, and Gregson here, I think, you are visiting family also, are you not?”

Gregson nodded, sweeping a hand back through his knot of flaxen hair. “Aye, like as not, as long as the weather does not get very much worse. You and Mr. Holmes are very fortunate in that you need not stir an inch from beside the fireplace until this lot is over.”

“Fortunate is scarcely the word,” said Holmes. “Ah, I can hear a carriage out in the street. I think that this must surely be our fifth and sixth.”

A booming from the hallway informed us that it was, as the elder Holmes brother wished our landlady the full compliments of the season and, from what we could make out, presented her with a small appreciative gift, which was accepted with grateful thanks. Then, further steps upon the stair, and before any of us could reach it, it pushed open, and there stood Mycroft Holmes and guest.

“Come in and shut the door, Mycroft,” said Holmes, “you are letting in the most appalling draught. Good evening, Mr. Burroughs, how very pleasant to meet you once again. How is your dear Aunt Augusta?”

Young Victor Burroughs – for it was he – came forward to shake my friend's hand, smiling, apologetic.

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes; good evening, gentlemen. My Aunt is very well, thank you, sir; she mentions you often, each time I pay her a visit. Thank you again for your time and care with her case. I am sorry if I am intruding on you this evening, but my prior plans fell through horribly, and your brother was so very kind enough to extend an invitation so that I should not be alone, and --”

“That is quite all right,” said Holmes, patting the garrulous fellow upon the shoulder, “you are not intruding in the slightest, we are happy to have you as our guest.”

“And besides, as you well know, Sherlock,” said his brother, “I really cannot bear to have an odd number at a dinner party. Six is such a nice even figure, don't you agree?”

“One which you are capable of counting up to, at any rate,” Holmes replied. He set about introducing the new arrivals to Inspectors Gregson and Lestrade. If there was a flicker which passed across Gregson's face, then it was fleeting. I could not tell if it was that the two gentlemen knew one another. The next moment I decided not, as the young Victor put forward friendly questions regarding career and family.

I smiled at Mycroft Holmes, standing beside me with a glass filled to the brim with rich red wine, and regarding the vocal hubbub with his usual polite detachment.

“I was not aware of your acquaintance with Mr. Burroughs,” I said, turning my head in the young man's direction.

“He is a regular at the Diogenes,” Mycroft replied. “We had met before that, also, in matters of State. He is most respectful, which is a quality I admire much in a gentleman. And quiet, which is a quality I admire even more. He is but four and thirty, and I think he will do well with his lot. He certainly appears to have found a kindred spirit in your Inspector Gregson.”

“Yes,” I said, “I am pleased to see that.”

“My invitation still stands for you and Sherlock to spend the day at my house tomorrow,” said Mycroft, sipping carefully from his glass. “I have broached the subject with my brother, but his reactions are always impossible. I have promised that I should not embarrass him with paper crowns and crackers, and yet he refuses to consider.”

“And I _still_ refuse,” said Holmes, overhearing and leaning in. “Watson and I have everything we need here, Mycroft, no other parties need apply.”

Mycroft Holmes shook his head. “Impossible,” he repeated. “Still, I am very glad you both are happy.”

I smiled. “Thank you, Mycroft, yes, we are. To your good health, sir.” And I raised my glass of Rhône to his.

And the fine wine softened all our edges, and mellowed out our tongues, and we became a rather merry gathering, in our fashion. We took our places at the table, and hailed Mrs. Hudson as she brought through one mouthwatering dish after another for our delectation: French onion soup; roast partridge and vegetables; a most delicious almond tart with cream.

“My word,” said young Victor to Inspector Gregson seated by his side, “this is the finest home-cooked meal that I have had in the longest time.” He smiled around at all of us. “I live alone, you see, and fend for myself. I could never hope to prepare anything like this.”

“I would agree with you, my lad,” beamed Inspector Lestrade. “I am thinking that it will take some walking off, to be sure. If I manage to eat more than a thimbleful tomorrow then it will be a miracle.”

We assisted with the clearing of the table. Holmes opened a bottle of aged tawny port. I laid out the card cloth, and we sat and played several hands of Whist. Such an oddball group of family and friends, old and new, but at that moment I could not think of any others with whom I would rather spend the time. But then, as Holmes has told me so very often, I am a sentimental fellow. Why should I not be?

Our little party began to draw to its close a few minutes before ten o'clock. The heavy snow had reduced to light flakes; and so beautiful, falling out of that blue-black sky.

I could not help but notice Gregson passing a folded slip of paper to Victor, who accepted it with a shy smile, placing it safe inside his waistcoat pocket.

As our guests were pulling on their coats and boots, I found my friend close by my elbow.

“Holmes,” I said, “did you see –?”

“Yes,” he said. “Now hush.”

And then, as our guests were shaking hands and making fond farewells and wishes for the season, and stepping out and marching into the dense white street, I found my friend's arm upon my shoulder. And we stood there, observing these departures from our window.

“Merry Christmas, my dear fellow,” I said, turning to my friend, and drawing to the curtain fold.

And he, smiling, drew me to him, in all of his great warmth. “Merry Christmas, John,” said he.


	2. The Silly Variant

**  
Part Two -- The Silly Variant   
**

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Holmes! It is snowing!”

It was Christmas Eve. I had spent the more significant part of the morning in town, wrestling my way through the throngs of busy shoppers, to purchase various last-minute essentials for our holiday at 221B. I had a large bag filled with bright wrapping papers, string, ribbons, card and tissue. It was quite as much a novelty to me as my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes, for this – the winter of 1881 – would be our very first Christmas together. Our Halloween had been eventful, to put it mildly. I had higher hopes for the forthcoming celebrations.

I stood now looking out from our bay window, my purchases thrust to one side, my coat still buttoned to the top, my gloves still there upon my hands. For the very second I had come in through our front door, the sky had opened up to snowflakes.

“Holmes! Do come here!”

Holmes was sprawling full-length upon the sofa. He had been there all the morning. He raised his head now, just an inch, to peer at me across the room.

“No,” said he. “Whatever makes you think that I would be interested in the trajectory of a snowflake?”

I persisted in beckoning my friend.

“It is the beauty of it, rather than the science,” I said, “and it has _just_ started to snow for the first time this year! Do come and take a look with me, my dear fellow.”

Holmes lifted himself onto one elbow.

“Are you going to steal my sofa?” he asked, petulantly. “Just when I've got it all nice and warm and comfortable?”

“I have no intention of stealing your sofa,” I said. “All the same, if you imagine for one second that I will be allowing you to remain there all afternoon, then you have another thought coming. We must decorate, and wrap our gifts, Holmes.”

My friend exhaled in exasperation. “Watson, will you please _stop_ waving your finger at me as though you are conducting an orchestra of lunatics. Very well, I shall come and take a look at your most fascinating snowflake.” He rolled away from the sofa and shuffled towards the window, yawning, irritable. He set his hands upon the sill and squinted up into the sky.

“Ugh,” said Sherlock Holmes.

I blinked. “'Ugh'?” I turned to look out from the window once again. I could see nothing to Ugh about.

Holmes huffed a great steam of breath upon the window pane. His index finger daubed busily through the condensation left behind. “U...G....H...” he intoned. He placed a full-stop at the end, as an afterthought.

I shook my head. “You are such a child,” I said. “Stop writing on the windows. It will leave marks.”

“I have looked at the snow, and now I am cold again,” he said, accusingly. “And I do not want to wrap gifts or put up streamers. I want to eat roasted chestnuts and smoke my pipe and have a nap.”

He headed back towards the sofa, preparing to fling himself upon it. I dived in and secured the end cushion for myself.

“You do not enjoy Christmas,” I observed. It hardly seemed worthwhile to set it as a question.

“No,” said Holmes. “It is a hundred times worse than Halloween.” He looked at me suspiciously, then. “I do not wish to hear any Christmas stories,” he said, carefully.

“I do not have any,” I said, reassuringly. I saw him relax. “What is it that you do not like about the season?” I persisted.

Holmes sighed, and took in a deep breath, counting each example off upon his fingers. “The greed, the gluttony, the _people_ , the weather, the shopping, the ho-ho-ho-ing, the incessant Merry-Christmas-ing, the abominable lack of casework at this time of year, and, and....” here he paused to consider, “... and the _pudding_.”

“You do not like Christmas because of the pudding?”

“That is one reason, but it is hardly the least of it.”

I stared at the rug. “You do not have to eat pudding if you do not like it?” I ventured.

He threw up his hands. “Why are you fixating upon the wretched pudding?” he demanded. “Were you not listening to all the other reasons that I gave to you?”

“Yes, Holmes, I was, but for the most part they are avoidable, excepting the lack of casework.”

He nodded. “Which, of course, is the most critical,” he said. “Everyone is so full of goodwill and goose that nothing at all remotely _interesting_ happens at this time of the year. No murders, no intrigues, no nothing.” He bit his lip. “Damnation, a double negative. No _anything_ ,” he amended.

I pointed to my bag of purchases, still upon the chair by the window.

“Much of our shopping is in that bag. What other people may prefer to do is their own concern; why worry yourself about them? If the weather is inclement, stay indoors. That way you will also avoid the greetings and all the rest which I suppose you find so superficial.”

Holmes drew his knees up to his chin, and looked at me sideways. “You are somewhat over-simplifying,” he said. “As is your wont,” he added, churlishly.

“Christmas is whatever you choose to make it,” I said, ignoring him. “And you are choosing to make it a misery. I am determined that this year you will enjoy yourself.”

Holmes groaned dismally and flung his head forward. “Anything but that,” he moaned, muffled, from between his kneecaps.

But now I had the bit between my teeth, and I was resolute. I knew only the smallest detail of my friend's childhood, and all but nothing of his family – or if, indeed, he actually had any surviving relatives. Holmes's secrecy on this front was perplexing to me, still I respected his right to silence. I wondered what might have happened in his youth for him to have formed such a steadfast horror of the holidays. I felt it dug deeper than the list relayed to me under interrogation.

I leapt up from the sofa and capered across to the window, grasping my bag, and, moving aside to the small dining table, turned the contents out upon it. I beckoned to my friend.

“You are doing that thing again with your finger,” he complained, coming to join me all the same.

“Look,” I said, spreading the things out before us both. “We have everything we need here. I assume that you have bought a gift for Mrs. Hudson, at the very least?”

Holmes nodded, with a grimace. “A bottle of bath salts,” he said, with an effort. “A _pink_ bottle,” he added, as though to emphasise the emotional turmoil that buying such an item had placed upon him.

“Very nice,” I said. “What else?”

He blinked slowly. “That is all,” he said.

“You bought just one gift?”

He shrugged, pointing vaguely in the direction of his bedroom.

“Ah, well then. I shall give you these two wrapping sheets here, and this string, and this ribbon, and you can wrap them up here at the table.”

Holmes looked at me, dumbstruck. “How?” he wailed. “I have never wrapped a present before! What do I do with the ribbon? Where do the bits go?”

He ran across to his writing desk, drew open a side compartment and pulled out the pink bottle of bath salts. He returned to me, waving the gift.

“It is a _bottle!_ ” he whined.

I began to laugh. “Yes, I can see that,” I said.

He pushed it at me. “You do it,” he said.

“Oh, no no.” I pushed it back to him. “I am not doing your work for you. I have my own gifts to wrap, Holmes.”

Sitting down heavily at the table, my friend picked disconsolately at the papers and ribbons. He took out his pocket-knife and gazed at it glumly before setting it down beside the string. He looked up at me, pleadingly. I shook my head. His shoulders slumped. As amusing as this was, I realised the longer I dallied then the longer it would take for him to begin work on his bottle. I made instead for our lumber-room, in search of the box of old decorations that our landlady had promised we might use for our sitting-room if we desired. As I busied myself with the garlands and bows, festooning our walls and surfaces with the reds, whites and greens, I did not think to look across to check the progress of my friend. When some twenty minutes had passed and I had decorated to my satisfaction, I stepped back finally to admire my handiwork. Only then did I look to Holmes, whose back was towards me, hunched over as a vulture at its prey.

“It is done,” I informed the vulture, brightly. “See how lovely it all looks, Holmes!”

He swung around to me. His eyes were crazed. He grabbed blindly at the object on the table before him.

“I have wrapped the bottle!” he gabbled. He pushed it into my hands for assessment. I looked down. The wrapping was bunched madly at where I presumed the base to be. What looked like a dozen rounds of string were tied around the middle. Further up towards the neck I supposed my friend had run out of all ideas as to quite what he should do with it. Two unhappy strips of bright paper were tightly bound across the top, secured by yet more string. A jagged length of red satin ribbon dangled down as though garrotted.

“What do you think?” he asked, anxious.

“It is most... conscientious, Holmes,” I replied. “Did you use _all_ of the string?”

Holmes picked up a short strand. “Not quite all,” he said. His face was flushed. “That was horrid,” he said.

“You did very well,” I assured him. “How about the others, in your room?”

He shook his head violently. “I will take those down for Mrs. Hudson to wrap,” he said, firmly. He snatched up two further sheets of wrapping paper and ribbon and charged for his bedroom, a few seconds after which I heard him exit out onto the landing and clatter down the stairs. I took the opportunity to unlock my own desk cabinet, then, and bring out the gifts I had bought for my friend, to wrap them as swiftly as I might in his absence. They did not take so very long, being small boxed items. I was finishing off a green ribbon on the last when Holmes huffed back into the sitting-room, empty handed and triumphant.

“Mrs. Hudson was a little cross with me,” he said. “I do not think that she likes wrapping, either. Oh!” The last was exclaimed as he stepped towards the table with its small pile of bundled gifts still upon it. He prodded at them.

I slapped his hand away. “No poking,” I said. “I am going to put them over here until tomorrow morning.” I picked them up and carried them to the small side table by the fireplace, where the prettiest of our decorations lay around.

“They are for me?” he asked, hesitantly. I nodded. My friend became quiet and thoughtful. “This is all a little new to me,” he said, eventually.

I furrowed my brow. “Receiving gifts is new to you?” A small pang of sadness touched my heart.

“You may not be familiar with the Watson way of celebrating Christmas, then,” I said, my resolve suddenly setting firm.

Holmes shook his head, puzzled.

“We have rituals,” I elaborated, grandly.

“Rituals?”

“Yes,” I said, my brain whirring madly with its own invention. “And seeing as how I am regrettably the last in the family line, we simply must carry them on and adhere to them. For the honour of the Watsons, Holmes.”

He nodded, respectful, but apprehensive. “What do these... rituals entail?” he asked.

“A treasure hunt, for gifts. With clues,” I said.

Holmes perked. “Clues,” he repeated, appearing to savour the word. “Clues!” he said again, delighted now.

“Yes, clues,” I smiled. “We can each hide one of our gifts to each other somewhere here in 221B, and write a series of clues for the other to follow, that they might find it.”

Holmes nodded vigorously.

“The second,” I said, looking out of the window again, “is snow angels.”

“Watson, now you are being silly,” said my friend. “There are no such things as angels.”

“There will be,” I informed him, mysteriously. “A little later, perhaps. Let us write our treasure hunts now.”

I issued my friend with five rectangles of paper, and instructed him to write out five clues, that the first might lead to the second, and on to the third, and so on, until the final grand reveal of the gift in its unfathomable hiding place. He set to work, scribbling, chuckling to himself, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. I wrote up my own, too. Of course, this had never been a family ritual of my own; I had invented it on the spot, to amuse and entertain my extraordinary flatmate. Presently, Holmes shuffled his papers together and folded his arms.

“Done,” he said. “When do we play?”

“Tomorrow morning,” I said. I saw him bristle in anticipation. “And now, I think, we might venture downstairs. Bring your coat, there's a good fellow.”

We stepped down into the hall, and out through the rattling old back door into Mrs. Hudson's small open courtyard, where the snow by now was falling heavily. The ground was thickly covered, even after so short a space of time, and Holmes and I pulled our coats around us, shivering.

“Why have you dragged me out here?” he asked. “It is icy cold.”

“We are going to make snow angels,” I said. “Lay down upon your back in the snow.”

Holmes looked at me as though I were a madman. “What?” he asked.

I pointed at the ground. “Lay down,” I repeated. “Trust me,” I added.

“But --” said Holmes. He looked down at the snow. His bottom lip thrust out. He looked again to me. Sighing, he sat down upon the deepest drift, and unfurled himself. He peered at me from out of the corner of one eye. “Now what?”

“Now sweep your arms up and down through the snow.”

Holmes flapped his arms obediently.

“Now stand up – carefully, Holmes! – and see your imprint.”

“I made an angel.” His voice was filled with wonder. Then: “I'm going to make another one.”

Two minutes later, Mrs. Hudson's back yard was strewn with ten charmingly prostrate six foot snow angels.

“And then, of course, there is the obligatory Watson snowball fight to the death,” I said, stooping down to gather a large fistful.

If Mrs. Hudson observed our frolic from her kitchen window, then she did not ever make a mention of it. The dear lady must have wondered, all the same, as to the carnage that was left behind: the snow-splattered wall; the small snowman with twigs for his arms and pebbles for eyes; the one peripheral angel that had somehow survived throughout all of our capering.

As Holmes and I sat by our sitting-room fire a while later, with a box of cinder toffee and a brandy apiece, thawing our bones and drying out our damp clothes, we could only smile foolishly at one another like children. Enthusiasm can be infectious and exhilarating; when well directed then it has its own unique ability to fill a heart with joy, to chase away small doubts and fears, those greyer-edged emotions that tug at us all to a greater or lesser extent. We can but only hope to shake them off; to make a little headway, a little further every time.

“Do you know, I think that I rather enjoy your peculiar family rituals, Watson,” said Holmes, sipping on his drink.

“I rather thought you might,” I replied. “And I am certain that you will enjoy tomorrow's even better. It involves goose feathers, strong twine and two upturned buckets. A very Merry Christmas, my dear fellow!”


	3. The BBC, And Therefore Very Current

** Part Three -- The BBC, And Therefore Very Current **

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Sherlock! It's snowing!”

John smiled out of the window, gazing across over the rooftops of Baker Street and away into the heavy greywhiteblue horizon, where thick flakes were falling, falling, covering London and far beyond. Their sitting-room was toasty, for once, the central heating turned up high. The Christmas decorations were up, and all the presents wrapped and beneath the tree. John had done the most of it; he didn't mind, he loved this time of year. Goodwill to all men. Sherlock included.

He turned around from the cold window pane back into the room, the natural light beginning to dim even though it was barely mid-afternoon. They had no plans for the rest of their day – Christmas Eve! – or tomorrow, even, beyond the (quite frankly) formidable challenge of cooking a turkey with trimmings from scratch without incurring some kind of sinister disaster. John had purchased a new baster especially. He didn't trust the old one. He had also picked up some roasting tins, a gravy boat, and this and that, and a bit of the other. Everything sat stacked upon the kitchen worktops, shining and immaculate, ready for action. It was at times such as this that John desperately wished he could actually cook.

He plugged in the tree lights, and the new string of plastic red chili-peppers that were pinned across the bookshelves, which he had found half-price at BHS, and rather liked even if Sherlock did scowl at them each and every time he walked by. John didn't think they were tacky; he liked the chili-peppers.

Sherlock was on the sofa, his long legs dangled over the side, his head propped up on a cushion. His eyes were closed; he was either asleep or studiously blanking out John. He was _still_ in his shirt-sleeves, which were rolled up to the elbow. Did the man even possess a jumper? Do squirrels shit Tic-Tacs?

“Sherlock,” said John.

“I don't _care_.”

“You don't even know what I'm going to say,” said John, reaching out to tweak his friend's mop of dark curls.

“Ow. Yes, I do. You're excited about snowfall, for some absurd reason, whereas I, on the other hand, really couldn't give a toss.” Sherlock opened one eye. “Mmm. Thought so.”

“It's the first snow of the year, Sherlock,” John turned to look out again, from the far side of their sitting-room. “And it's pelting it down. It'll settle, and it'll look gorgeous tomorrow morning. A white Christmas!”

“I still don't care. I'm rather more concerned about you setting the kitchen on fire with that colossal great turkey you bought in a fit of insanity.”

John frowned. He sat down in his armchair, picked up the TV guide, threw it aside again, and continued to frown. The turkey wasn't really all that big; it was just their oven that was small. They'd have to juggle around a bit with the roasting tins, mind you.

“I really hope that you're going to help a bit, tomorrow,” he said, finally. “And not just sprawl out there, getting pissed on ginger wine and sick on Kinder eggs.”

Sherlock huffed a chuckle. Mrs. Hudson had visited their flat that morning, bringing with her a small paper bag containing a box of three Christmas-foiled chocolate Kinder eggs. She had proffered them to John as though they were a delicacy as exquisite as caviar or quail eggs. “I just saw them on the shelves at Marks & Spencer, and well, you know,” she had said, “aren't they so lovely and colourful? I thought you'd like them. I'm silly, I know. You can just eat the chocolate, you don't have to play with the toy inside.”

“Neither of us can cook,” said Sherlock. “We didn't even give it a practice run. I can't stand parsnips or sprouts, and you don't like the stuffing. We're going to be eating that turkey for the next three months unless one of us drops the thing on the floor first. You're impossibly optimistic about it all, though, aren't you?”

“It'll be all right,” said John. “But please help, even if it's just to peel the potatoes and scrape the carrots.”

“Some people have kitchen staff to do all this.”

“And other people have to make do with their lazy-arsed flatmate,” said John. “Yeah, I know. Are you still bored?”

Sherlock clapped his hands to his face by way of reply. He lurched into a sitting position, finally, with elbows on his knees, cupping his chin in both palms.

“Of _course_ I'm bored. Lestrade hasn't contacted me for any new cases in over a fortnight now. The criminal classes must all be half-dead in bed with the flu, otherwise there's no explanation for it. I need a good murder to cheer me up, John.”

“There'll be one right now if you don't tidy up a bit,” said John. “Really, I'm not kidding, stop smirking. I never used to be a nagger until I bloody well moved in with you, and now I never seem to stop. Clean this muck up. What if your brother pops round?”

Sherlock's face wrinkled in displeasure at the mention of Mycroft Holmes. He had artfully manoeuvred his way out of the invitation to the family home for Christmas lunch, and had so far managed to avoid all face-to-face confrontations with his elder brother up to this point in the season. A round of verbal fisticuffs on Christmas Eve would be undesirable, but perhaps inevitable, now that he thought about it. The Holmeses always fought at Christmas; it was their own small way of celebrating, and just how it had always been. Christmas. It was bloody awful. John was trying hard to get him involved, though, Sherlock knew that, and he was touched. Touched by the small gestures of affection, and of creating their own traditions, however ridiculous, so that they could presumably carry them forward from year to year. When Sherlock thought of John these past few months in general, and these last two weeks in particular, it was accompanied by a warm fuzz down in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock didn't know what to make of it, and he wasn't at all sure if he liked it. But John was looking at him now, and oh, hadn't he asked him to do something or other? Tidy up? Sherlock began pulling the contents of the coffee table in a large heap towards him, to sort through and ostensibly to organise. He tossed screwed-up balls of paper into an empty plastic carrier-bag, and foraged beneath the table for the handful of long-discarded nicotine patches that had somehow ended up there. Into the bag they went.

“I'm tidying. Look,” said Sherlock. “That thing worries me, you know,” he added, pointing over to the door. A small sprig of mistletoe was pinned there.

John turned his head to look. “Mrs. Hudson put that there. It wasn't me,” he said.

“Is she expecting us to kiss her, do you think?”

John laughed, hard. “I don't _think_ so,” he replied. “I'm not entirely sure what goes on inside her head a lot of the time, but I'm fairly certain it was put there for our benefit rather than hers.”

Sherlock frowned. “She wants us to kiss other people?”

John shook his head. Really, sometimes Sherlock could be so obtuse. “I think she expects us to be kissing each other, Sherlock. You know, the same as practically everyone else we know expects us to, no matter how many times we tell them that we're not a couple.”

“Yes, that's right, we're not,” agreed Sherlock. And then there was that fuzz again, only this time he felt it twisting, and that was so beyond not good. “Should we take it down?” he suggested. _Twist_. Ow.

“No, leave it. It looks Christmassy, it's nice.”

“I'm glad we didn't get a Christmas pudding,” said Sherlock, shaking the carrier-bag and peering inside to gauge how much tidying he had managed. “Those things are disgusting.”

“At this rate, the only thing that's going to actually make it onto your dinner plate tomorrow will be a slice of turkey and a roast potato,” John mused. “And even then I bet you'll have a whinge. Have you even _tasted_ Christmas pudding, or did one give you a nasty look back in 1998 and you've been carrying a grudge ever since?”

Sherlock tutted. “I know what they're like, and they're too bloody fruity.”

“Yeah, well, I could say the same about you.” John stood up, grinning, watching Sherlock's grand endeavour to tidy up, which really at the present moment just amounted to Chucking Out Anything That's Small Enough To Fit Inside The Carrier-Bag. “Hey, don't throw that out, that's the TV remote, Sherlock, for pete's sake.”

Sherlock tossed the remote to one side. _Fruity? Say the same about me? What's that supposed to mean? Is that good or bad? Am I too fruity? What?_

“Okay, that'll do,” said John, “at least that's cleared the floor space up a bit. Give me the bag, I'll put it in the bin. If you can just put all those books back on the shelves then we might be halfway there.”

Sherlock dutifully began picking up books. John was so much better at household management than he, Sherlock, could ever be. _How fruity is too fruity?_ He wondered if they might open that bottle of Peach Schnapps yet, or if it was too early. Get John tipsy and then he might shut up about the other half of the housework. Fancy leaving housework until Christmas Eve. John might not be so great at household management after all. _I'm not fruity!_

By the time John came back in from the kitchen, Sherlock had set out the Schnapps and two tumblers on the freshly cleared coffee table.

“All right, then, you've twisted my arm,” said John. “You pour us a glass, and I'll get the mince pies.”

This Peach Schnapps was nice. It was also quite strong. You couldn't chug it back like beer. Sherlock wondered how many sips John would need to take before he started slurring and giggling. Sherlock loved it when John slurred and giggled; there was something so... no, never mind, no, just pour the Schnapps. And this was why he hated Christmas. People were expected to be happy, and they were expected to be emotional, and it was all so much _sentimental nonsense_ , and why now, why, and no, he wouldn't anyway, would he, oh, but what if? No, he wouldn't.

“Have a mince pie,” said John. “Or would you rather have a Kinder egg?”

“A Kinder egg with Peach Schnapps?” Sherlock was faintly appalled. “That'll be vile. Give one here. What do these things actually _do?_ ”

“They're chocolate shells, with a plastic thing in the middle. There's a toy inside the plastic thing. You might need to assemble it,” said John. “I think Mrs. Hudson is a bit doolally.”

Sherlock twirled the foil-covered egg between his fingers, examining it intently. He picked delicately at the foil. Sliding a fingernail along the chocolate seam, he prised the two halves of the shell apart. Inside there was the yellow plastic capsule, as John had promised.

“You seem to know a lot about these things,” he said, suspiciously. “Aren't they supposed to be for children?”

“Open it,” said John, “I bet you're just dying to see what you've got.”

“The anticipation is killing me.” Sherlock popped open the capsule. He glared at the contents. “Bits of plastic that require assembly,” he said. “Is this supposed to be fun?”

“A five-year-old would think so,” said John. “Which means, in theory, that you should love Kinder eggs.”

“I'm ignoring you, John.” Sherlock looked at the bright plastic pieces now cupped in his palm. “Ugh,” he said. “I know what this is before I've even put it together.”

“What is it?”

Sherlock held up the completed toy. “An angel... with a snowflake halo,” he said.

“It's got a loop on it, you can hang it on the tree.”

“You're ridiculous,” Sherlock informed his friend, but he stood up and carried the tiny plastic angel across to the twinkling tree. “Oh, that looks so much better now.”

John giggled. _Warm fuzz. Go on. Drink another Schnapps and then giggle some more. Go on._

“I think I'll have some more of that Schnapps,” said John.

 _Yes._

“I'll close the curtains,” said Sherlock. He walked over to the window. “It's snowing, John.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“That means we might not see Mycroft after all. He hates the snow. It ruins his shoes.”

John chuckled. “That figures. You are going to call him, though, aren't you, tomorrow morning?”

Sherlock shrugged, throwing himself back onto the sofa. “I suppose.” He didn't want to think about family phone calls right now. Right now was Schnapps and mince pies and John, and this. This. Whatever “this” was. As close as he'd ever gotten to something that he couldn't (was too afraid to?) identify. Afraid of losing it before he'd even found it. Just afraid. _Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you got 'til it's gone? Shut up, Joni Mitchell, shut up, shut up, he hasn't gone, he's right here, and that's enough, that's good enough, and I do know, I do know._

“Why are you screwing your face up?” John was looking at him again. “Is that stuff too strong for you? Would you prefer some wine? I could open that bottle of --”

“No, it's fine.” Sherlock swallowed a mouthful. “See? Cheers.”

“Let's put on some music.” John slid onto the carpet and knee-walked over to the CD player. He riffled through a stack of discs. One met his approval and was fed into the tray. Someone or other – Sherlock had no idea who – started to sing softly through the speakers. At least it wasn't Christmas carols, or Slade, or Cliff Richard. It was nice. Sherlock took another long sip of his drink. It was going to his head. _And that's what happens when the only thing you've had to eat all day is a mince pie._

“Sherlock,” said John, “I just want you to know that I'm enjoying this Christmas here with you, even though I know Christmas isn't really your thing, and all. Thanks for spending it with me.”

“S'ok,” said Sherlock. “I'm... glad you're here.”

John smiled at him. He loved the challenge of teasing out Sherlock's softer side; it had become a bit of a hobby of his, of late, with varying degrees of success. The detective could be such a prickly, awkward character: sweet one moment, acidic the next. John never quite knew where he was with him. He knew where he'd like to be. Underneath that damned mistletoe. Hardly likely, though, with him being married to his work, and all, and never showing any sign of interest, or... oh, just forget it. What the hell was in this Schnapps? He should have eaten a proper meal today, instead of picking away at junk. Let's have another glass of it.

“I'll help you with the vegetables,” said Sherlock suddenly, apropos of nothing.

“What?” John blinked. “Oh, right, for tomorrow, well, good. Thank you.”

“I'll even... baste the turkey. If you want me to.”

“That's the best offer I've had all year,” said John.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

 _Did John just flirt with me, did he, no, that wasn't flirting, that was what he'd call a joke. Is “baste the turkey” some sort of gay slang? I've no idea. Perhaps I just offered to – no, never mind, god, I hope not. Did I? I have to know!_

“Was that inappropriate slang for something... inappropriate?” asked Sherlock.

“Was that... what? Inappropriate?” John bit back a laugh. “Well, not really, but...” He felt himself going red. He looked at Sherlock. No, can't read anything at all in that face of his. Is he offended? Haven't got a clue. “I'm sorry?” he said, finally. If in doubt, apologise.

“No, don't apologise. I just didn't know,” said Sherlock. _Just a joke, then, nothing in it._ Sherlock looked down into his glass.

John stared. Something weird going on with Sherlock right now. He's got an expression on him now, it's almost... disappointed. Not offended. Oh? Oh. Oh! What a thing to be disappointed about, and how come I didn't notice before, and oh, bloody hell? Let's see how we can work _this_ one out. Easy, slowly, gently gently, don't rush it so that there's no going back, because that would be –

“Sherlock, come over here.” John stood and grabbed at his friend's sleeve, hauling him out of his seat. “There's an old Christmas Eve tradition that I'd forgotten about, and it's good luck to do it, and really bad luck _not_ to, so, I think...” Ah, well, so much for subtlety. That's Schnapps for you.

Sherlock blinked at John, who had pulled him across to the sitting-room door.

“Tradition?” he asked, looking up. “But you said --”

“Yeah, well, I forgot, all right? Come here, you stupid sod, and Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas... John?” said Sherlock, drawing in, tentative, but, _Oh yes, yes, yes. Merry Christmas to you too, warm fuzz._


End file.
